All We Ever Do Is Say Goodbye
by i am a bee
Summary: As he slid the heavy metal door shut behind him, he was filled not with any semblance of closure but a sense of crippling surety deep in the pit of his stomach that he was making the biggest mistake of his life. Post-513
1. Chapter 1

**11:49 AM. August 7, 2005 **

**Justin's POV**

He is making a mistake. It runs through his head like a mantra. _Shouldn't have left, shouldn't have left, shouldn't have left._ As the taxi had long since left the curb at La Guardia, the fleeting streets of New York outside his window are replaced by what happened the night before.

When he'd kissed him in the loft, he hadn't been able to hide the despair he'd felt. He'd kissed him like a man condemned and he'd known that Brian had been able to tell that the brave face that he'd put on had been nothing more than a farce. What he'd said was true, they didn't know if they'd ever see each other again. They might still live happily ever after, but they might not. Much as it would kill the both of them slowly, there really wasn't any way to tell.

_It's only time._

So Justin had kissed him like he was never going to kiss him again, and when they'd made love, he'd clung to him desperately as if he were drowning and Brian was the only thing keeping him afloat. He'd mapped Brian's body, committed it to memory, and even though it'd been too deep, too hard, too rough, he knew that he would never forget a single second of it. He didn't know how he'd managed not to cry for Brian's sake and his own – he'd wanted to, for what could have and should have been – but he'd known that he couldn't and somehow the tears hadn't come. He'd felt like it was his responsibility to maintain the semblance of hope he'd put on for both their sakes so it was surprising to him when Brian hadn't been able to repress the pure anguish that had escaped from his chest each time he'd come. He was certain that he had left as many bruises on Brian as he'd counted on his own skin this morning.

He hadn't been able to say goodbye to him. Sneaking out of the loft before Brian had woken up wasn't something he was particularly proud of, but the thought of leaving him there, walking away while he watched, was unbearable. _Insupportable_, as they said in French. Sometimes the French had it right. Leaving him like _that_...well, it just wasn't an option that he could consider.

He yawns.

He hadn't been able to sleep, either. They'd been up most of the night, but Brian had finally fallen asleep around 5 AM. Justin had tried to sleep, too, at first – until the realisation that this could be _it_ hit him. Afterwards, he'd stayed awake not out of choice but out of necessity. He had to be awake when the sun rose. He'd done it a million times and he'd watched Brian sleep more times than he was willing to admit even to himself, so it only seemed fitting that he do it one last time. He was exhausted, but his determination to savour ever last second they had together had won out. It might have been better to have slept, he decides now. He'd hoped that it would be cathartic to watch him, but it wasn't. So when Justin had finally left the loft, he hadn't looked back. As he slid the heavy metal door shut behind him, he was filled not with any semblance of closure but a sense of crippling surety deep in the pit of his stomach that he was making the biggest mistake of his life.

**Brian's POV**

When Brian wakes up it is to the dull grinding noise of his loft door opening. He forces open his eyes still swollen with sleep just in time to see Justin leave without looking back. He stays where he is and says nothing and before he can rouse himself into action Justin is gone and he is alone.

**9: 58 PM. April 8, 2012 **

**Brian's POV**

"Kinney."

"Are you sitting down?"

He can hear the smile in Ted's voice even over the phone. He feels his pulse quicken and he leans into his phone. Of course he is sitting down. He's just parked his car in the garage and is pulling his keys from the ignition. "Give me the good news, Theodore."

"Kinnetik has had a record breaking quarter in Pittsburgh, Los Angeles, Houston and Chicago. The Los Angeles branch alone has already doubled our projections from last year." Ted stops to clarify, "Our _nationwide_ projections."

A crazed grin breaks out on his face even though he manages to keep his voice level in the dark. "_Jesus_."

"It's time, Brian." The connection crackles.

He knows what is coming. He isn't sure if he wants to hear it. "For what?"

"New York."

**Justin's POV**

"You're late."

Justin's heart seizes in his chest and he lets out a semi-girlie, panicked shriek. "Jesusfucking_Christ_youscaredmeMiles!"

Laughter bounces from the overstuffed sofa on the other side of the room. Miles lets the newspaper he was reading flop down so that his green eyes can find Justin's across the apartment. He smiles. "I'm sorry, baby. How was your day?"

Justin lets his messenger bag slide from his shoulder onto the floor. "What are you doing here?" his tone is slightly suspicious. "I thought you were supposed to be back tomorrow morning!"

"The exhibit wasn't nearly as promising as we expected. I was able to catch an earlier flight." Miles closes his newspaper and tosses it aside. "I've been home since four."

Justin crosses the room and takes the paper from Miles' grip. He folds it carefully, sets it beside him on the sofa and climbs onto Miles' lap, straddling his hips and cupping his face gently. "Good..." he punctuates each word with a kiss. "Missed...you." He pulls away with an incandescent smile on his face. "I'm glad you're home. How was Chicago?"

Miles practically purrs. "Horrible. It rained the whole time we were there and the food was terrible." His arms come up under Justin's t-shirt to stroke his bare back. "There's some gnocchi in the fridge. I had to eat without you."

Justin shoots him a knowing look. "Gnocchi?"

A smile tugs at the corners of Miles' lips. "Yeah, gnocchi."

_The first time that Miles asked him out, he turned him down. The second and the third time, too. It wasn't until the fourth time he asked that Justin had finally caved and said yes. The day that Miles asked him out for the fourth time was the day after what would have been their third wedding anniversary. It also happened to be the first year that Brian didn't come to New York to spend the day with him._

"_Really? You've never tried gnocchi before?"_

_Justin shook his head._

"_Well, then," Miles' voice dropped conspiratorially, "you are in for a treat. It's my grandmother's secret Italian family recipe. And I happen to be an excellent cook."_

_Justin smiled. "Are you sure that there isn't anything I can do?"_

"_Actually," Miles took a deep sip of his wine, "there is. You can tell me why you finally said yes."_

_Justin leaned in and silenced him with his mouth. _

Justin's hands drop to loosen Miles' silk tie. "I had a late lunch at the studio."

"Excellent." Miles leans forward and holds Justin's lower lip between his teeth for an instant before kissing him soundly.

Justin slides his hands down the front of Miles' dress shirt and tugs it from his pants. He unbuttons it carefully, meticulously even, before sending it to the floor in a wrinkled heap. When he drags his nails across Miles' chest, he watches as he casts his head back against the back of the sofa and exhales sharply. He snickers when he feels Miles' cock twitch between his legs.

"I think you missed me, too." Justin brushes his lips again Miles' earlobe. His legs are starting to cramp, so he shifts his weight to accommodate and grinds harder against the bulge in Miles' pants.

Miles moans again and lets out a string of inappropriate words under his breath. He has clearly finished humouring him. He stands up with Justin's legs wrapped around his waist and, as Justin's laughter rings through the apartment, carries him to their bedroom.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Miles lays him gently against the mattress and jerks his jeans down his hips.

"No underwear?" he asks, surprised.

"I left them at the studio."

"You're awfully promiscuous, Mr. Taylor."

Justin moans when Miles strokes him. "Mhmm."

It isn't long before Justin's shirt joins the rest of his clothes on the hardwood. Dropping lower, he spreads Justin's legs and runs his tongue up the length of his shaft before taking the tip into his mouth and sucking gently.

Justin fists his hands in Miles' dark, wavy hair and gasps his name.

Out of nowhere, Miles and his warm mouth disappear but then they are back and a slippery finger bypasses his balls and strokes him softly.

"_Please_." It is filled with longing. "_Please_, Miles."

The finger is gone again.

The sound of the condom wrapper ripping open is the most beautiful thing Justin has heard in years. It is the most beautiful thing he's heard in years only because there are no sirens. He cannot taste any smoke and the slate grey walls of their bedroom are not the dark wood panels at Britin. When it is over and Miles has collapsed on top of him it is all words.

"I love you."

"I love _you_, Miles."

"I'll love you forever. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Justin."

Justin's heart is pounding so hard he wonders if Miles can hear it. He knows what was coming. He isn't surprised when he hears Miles say it and when Justin gives his answer, they lay there together for hours holding one another and laughing through their tears.

Marry_ me, Justin._

It isn't until much later that he becomes sad upon the realisation that he hadn't thought of Brian when he'd said yes.

**7:33 PM. September 2, 2005**

**Brian's POV**

Justin practically attacks him when he opens the door and now the little twat has wedged his face into his neck and is half-sniffling, half-sobbing against the collar of his jacket. "What took you so fucking long? You asshole, that was the longest month of my life. I missed you _so _much. Could you have waited any longer to come and see me?"

Brian doesn't answer him, only hugs him tighter and buries his nose in the silky blonde strands that he's loved for five years. When Justin has finally gotten his shit together, he pulls back and stares into his eyes. They are red rimmed from crying and look a thousand times bluer than Brian remembers. He tilts Justin's chin upwards and kisses him hard. When they finally break apart, he opens his mouth—_I missed you, too. I missed you so fucking much_—and asks, "Are you going to let me in or should we just fuck in the hall?"

Justin's face lights up with a grin and he laughs. "It _is_ kind of dirty out here."

The apartment that Justin is sharing with Daphne's friend is even worse than the drug dens and rattraps that he'd pictured on the flight to New York. When Justin pulls him inside and drags him to his bedroom he pulls his mouth away long enough to mumble something about his roommate having gone away for the weekend.

When they make love this time, it is every bit as desperate as it had been the night before Justin had left for New York. Brian knows that he'd accidentally ripped one of the seams on Justin's t-shirt in his struggle to get it off as quickly as possible. They are every bit as insatiable as they'd been every time before and the noises they make are maybe even more anguished than they'd ever been. At one point he notices that his face is wet, but so is Justin's and he has no idea whether the salty tears he tastes are Justin's or his own. It isn't until afterward, when they are lying face-to-face on their sides, clutching each other tightly, that Brian begins to feel that maybe—just _maybe_—things are going to be okay.

* * *

**A/N: _Queer as Folk_ and its characters, etc., belong to Showtime and CowLip.**

**Title is not mine either. Thanks, John Mayer.  
**

**So, I watched the season 5 finale and it shattered my heart. I wouldn't change the ending, but...ungh. This is how I'm coping.**

**Comments and criticisms are a writer's best friend. **

**Let me know what you think :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**1:08 PM. October 3, 2012**

**Justin's POV**

When his phone goes off on the counter, Justin snaps out of his reverie and curses himself for forgetting to put it back in his pocket. He scampers down the ladder he's been perched on precariously for the last forty minute as quickly as he can without risking serious injury to either his person or his art. He runs across the studio. He is expecting a call from Miles and forgets to clean his hands before he picks it up. He winces when he ses the not-yet-dry streaks of paint that cover his hands.

He checks the call display before answering. It isn't Miles.

"Hey, Cam, what's up?"

Cam is his agent. They'd met during a student showcase in his second year at the Cooper Union where he'd won a full scholarship and completed his degree. She is only older than Justin by a handful of years, had graduated early from both high school and college and, most importantly, has a great eye and a cutthroat flair for business. They'd hit it off as friends immediately and she'd become his agent soon after.

He listens to her launch into a tirade about something or other and goes into the kitchenette to pour himself a drink. He's been working for over six hours without break and is getting a little dehydrated.

"I've got someone interested in the Pride collection."

"Oh, yeah? Which pieces?" Justin takes a big gulp.

Cam pauses. "_All_ of them."

Justin sprays the water he'd been drinking onto the tiled backsplash behind the sink. "_What? _Who?"

"Another anonymous buyer. Said it was a private collection."

"But..." he trails off, "they want _all _of them?"

"All eleven, yes."

Justin sets his glass down on the counter. "How much are they offering?"

"Three hundred and seventy."

"_Thousand?_!" He yelps and his voice bounces around the open, vaulted floor plan.

"Thousand," Cam confirms. "Three hundred and seventy _thousand_ dollars."

Justin's mind whirls. He slides down the counter until he is on the floor. "_Christ_."

Cam chuckles on the line. "I thought you might like that."

"_Like_ it?" Justin exhales loudly through his mouth. He does a couple of quick calculations in his head. "That's nearly twice what I've ever gotten for any painting. And then multiplied by eleven."

"Are you going to take the offer?"

"I'm going to have to think about this, Cam." Justin drags a hand through his disorderly hair. "This is crazy. This is _insane_. They must've lost their mind."

"_You'd_ be crazy not to take it."

"But, Cam...!" Justin can hear his own voice and hates that it has taken on a whining quality that reminds him of Molly.

"I think that you should take it. But if you need some time to think about it, talk it over with Miles, that's fine. I thought you might freak out and I already spoke to them about it. They're willing to wait."

"Yeah, okay." Justin feels somewhat better and hangs up. He shakes his head disbelievingly. _Three hundred and seventy thousand dollars_. It is a lot of money. The money isn't what is important, though. The paintings are. The act of creation has always been something that he's found cathartic. His art is a very big part of how he interprets the world. It was part of the reason why he'd dealt with the bashing so badly. He'd been unable to do anything because of his hand and it had almost destroyed him. He'd pushed what he normally would have painted aside and hid it in a very small corner of his mind, leaving it to fester and boil until Cody had come along and it'd finally exploded. The Pride paintings are infinitely dearer to him than anything else he'd created about the bashing. They are more important because they have a broader scope. They are about all of it: the realisation, his first time, coming out, the bashing, becoming the best homosexual that he could be. The Pride paintings are about him...but they are also very much about Brian.

**Brian's POV**

The New York office is spectacular. It is nothing like the Pittsburgh office or any of the other ones. It is better. It is modern and cutthroat and everything that he'd wanted it to be. Sitting at his new desk, looking out over the Hudson, he looks every inch the wildly successful, self-made man that he is. He isn't quite arrogant enough to pretend that he's never made any mistakes, but he knows that all things considered, he's done _very_ well for himself. Kinnetik has become one of the most successful ad agencies in the country and he has no one more than himself to thank. He'd put it ahead of everything in his life except for his son and, on occasion, Lindsay and Michael. He'd worked himself to the bone in the beginning, taking risk after risk to land the best, the biggest, the highest-profile accounts he possibly could. Ted had been _furious _when he'd found out that he'd invested a sizable chunk of his own capital into the company, but it had all paid off. And now...nothing can touch him. He'd had a half-dozen offers from larger corporations over the years and, much to his satisfaction, he'd ended up buying up each of them in turn.

Pittsburgh is still his home base but he insists on being involved in each of the other offices. He returns for one full month during the summer in which Gus comes to stay and then he is off again, flying back and forth all from one end of the country to the other and back again. He is a permanent traveller, a permanent guest. He lives in hotels and hires drivers. He can't be bothered to form any real permanency in any of the places he works. They don't matter to him. The only real estate he owns is in Pittsburgh. The loft and...that _other_ place. He hasn't been to Britin in years and except for the caretakers that he staffs to keep it maintained, it may as well be abandoned.

"The people from Forbes want to know if you would be available for an interview next month. They were thinking the 23rd. What would you like me to tell them?"

Cynthia is one of the only constants in his life. She is ruthless and brilliant and when he'd realised exactly what an asset she was to the company, he'd promoted her. In spite of this, it amuses him to see how she forgoes her own personal assistants and deals with him herself. He respects that.

"That won't work. Tell them that I'll be available the week after."

Cynthia grins. They both know damn well that there is nothing stopping him from giving the interview on the 23rd.

"Anything else?"

"Not for the moment. I'll get Jack to let them know."

She is gone.

**10:21 PM. December 24, 2005**

**Justin's POV**

He is feeling sorry for himself. It is a practice he's indulged in a couple of times since coming to New York. Most of the time he is able to keep the loneliness and pity at bay in knowing that he has done the right thing, no matter how hard it had been to do it, but every once in a while it creeps up on him. It's the times when it takes him be surprise that he finds it harder to push away. He's made friends and even applied to several art schools. Including the Cooper Union. He knows that he probably won't get in, but the act of having applied is important to him and Lindsay talked him through the whole terrifying process. He is usually able to temper the gut feeling that he's made a mistake, but tonight it has decided to rear its ugly head and he is miserable.

His roommate is gone again—when _was _the last time he'd seen him?—and it is Christmas. Justin _loves_ Christmas. He can't help it. It is how he was brought up. Christmas is a big deal to WASPs. Brian had wanted to fly him home to Pittsburgh but Justin had known that he was struggling to make Kinnetik work so he'd cashed the ticket and sent Brian a cheque instead. By the time that Brian had found out it had been too late to find another flight—which was beside the point _anyway_ since he'd been furious.

Justin had known at the time that cashing the cheque had been the right thing to do but right now he wants nothing more than to be home. It is cold in the apartment no matter how high they can afford to turn up the heat and it is downright gloomy. He misses his mother and Molly, he misses Debbie and all the rest of them. He misses _Brian_. He'd insisted on being a martyr and now he feels like a fool.

So instead of spending Christmas Eve with his family, he is spending it alone in a shithole apartment with dirty windows and drafts. There isn't even a Christmas tree. He's already gone through the contacts on his phone and called all of his loved ones back home in Pittsburgh. He's even called Brian—at work, at home, _and _on his cell—but there'd been no answer. Justin assumed that he was still pissed off about the plane ticket. Disheartened, he's donned several layers of clothing and is sitting on the couch under a blanket. _It's A Wonderful Life _plays on the television as it has each Christmas Eve in the Taylor household while he grew up but, even though his eyes are on the television, he isn't really paying attention to the events unfolding on the screen.

Just as he is ready to give up and go to bed, there is a loud banging on the door. Startled, Justin rises. He goes to the door and peers out through the spy hole. When he sees who it is, he throws the door open and jumps into Brian's soggy embrace.

**Brian's POV**

He certainly has not driven 370 miles and 9 hours on hazardous, backed up winter roads to spend Christmas Eve in Justin's rattrap apartment. He peels Justin from his mouth so that he can speak. "Get your shit, Sunshine. We're going to a hotel."

As he watches Justin bound away, he smiles.

He'd made the reservations as soon as he'd gotten the cheque for Justin's plane ticket, but he isn't about to own up to that.

"Welcome to the Four Seasons, Mr. Kinney. I hope that you enjoy your stay."

As soon as he's pulled Justin into the elevator behind him, he presses him against the wall and kisses him until he can barely breathe. They ride the thirty-odd floors to their room alone and mercifully are not stopped once. By the time they stumble out and make it to their room, Brian is surprised to see that his hands are shaking as he fumbles to get the door opened. Their luggage—what little of it there is—has already been brought up. Their room is beautiful.

Justin breaks away from his embrace and goes to the window where he stares out at the traffic and the swirling snow below.

Brian strips off his leather jacket and follows him, wrapping his arms around him again. Justin leans into him and Brian can feel all of the pent-up stress and tension from the last few weeks leave his body.

"I was hoping you'd come. I didn't think that you would, but I was hoping."

"You were just hoping that you'd get to spend Christmas in the Four Seasons instead of in Pittsburgh." He can't see his face, but he can hear the smile in his voice and he feels it on his mouth when Justin turns his head to the side and kisses his shoulder.

"Thank you."

They stand there for a few minutes watching the snow fall until Justin grabs him by the hand and leads him to bed. It is slower and sweeter than it has been in a long time and when it is over they lay there, participating in languid kisses that are—as they so often are where the two of them are concerned—more revealing than anything that could have been said. They finally start drifting to sleep as the night begins to lift and the last thing that Brian hears before falling into the kind of deep exhausted sleep he's been missing out on for months is Justin's murmured I love you into his chest.

* * *

**A/N: _Queer as Folk_ and its characters, etc., belong to Showtime and CowLip.**

**Title is that of a John Mayer song. Obviously not mine.  
**

**Comments and criticisms are a writer's best friend. **

**Let me know what you think :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**11:13 PM. September 22, 2005**

**Justin's POV**

He doesn't feel like going out tonight. He is exhausted so when he finally arrives back at the apartment and sees that Ian—Daphne's friend and his roommate who is _never_ home—has thrown a party without telling him, he is slightly pissed off. He's worked a full day at the cafe which is not at all like Liberty Diner and is exhausted. There are new kitchen staff and there'd been a slew of wrong and late orders. It hadn't been his fault in the slightest, but he'd known that there'd been to point in telling _that _to a disgruntled customer. But, sensing Justin's mood, Ian presses a cold beer into his hand the second he walks in the door and all is forgiven.

He drags him around the apartment—small, though it is—and introduces him to everyone. As he shakes hand after hand, he decides that Ian's friends are nice enough, but he can't help but miss his—well, by proxy, since they had been _technically_ Brian's—friends. He is sure that he will like these New York people eventually,but for the moment he is having trouble not comparing them to the ones in Pittsburgh.

He's somewhat underwhelmed by them. They are kind of pretentious and not at all in the way that he normally likes and this is the reason why he finds himself alone, leaning against the counter in what could be called their kitchen, drinking his beer.

"So you must be the artist."

He turns to the dark haired stranger beside him who has appeared out of nowhere and spoken. He looks a little older than most of Ian's other friends and has the most fascinating green eyes he's ever seen. Justin decides that he must have come with someone because he'd sure that they haven't been introduced.

"Trying to be," Justin laughs self-deprecatingly and offers his hand. "Justin Taylor."

**Brian's POV**

Since Justin has gone to New York, he's started tricking again. His heart isn't really in it—hasn't been for a _long_ time—and he shakes his head when he recalls the days when he would have scoffed at the thought of sex with the same person for the rest of his life. He no longer sees the attraction of casual sex, of a string of meaningless one night stands, but he is damned if he is going to waste away like some pathetic, lovelorn lesbian in Justin's absence. The thought of abstaining from sex makes him shudder.

He still follows the rules. No names, no numbers, no repeats. Back before three and no kissing on the mouth. He's made one addition to their rules, though. Something he hasn't told Justin about. He's started leaving the blonde ones alone.

**5:07 PM. April 5, 2006**

**Justin's POV**

Justin's hands are shaking.

"I can't!" he wails, dropping his head to his hands and rocking back and forth. "Miles, I can't!"

Miles is still for a moment before reaching out and gripping Justin's arm. Moral support, you know. "You have to."

"Can't you just open it for me?"

Miles shakes his head. "I can't believe you haven't opened it yet."

Justin flings the letter onto the floor. "It's too small. It's too small to be an acceptance letter." He is practically hyperventilating now. "They don't want me! Do you know how difficult it is to get in there?"

Smirking, Miles drapes a supportive arm around him. "Only one way to know for sure. Open it."

Justin picks the letter up off the floor and slowly turns it over in his hands. "Okay," he channels Ben and breathes deep Zen-like breaths. "I can do this."

"You can do this," Miles confirms and squeezes his shoulder.

Justin rams his finger under the flap of the envelope and tears. "OhGodohGodohGodohGodohGod."

"I had no idea you were so religious."

Justin turns his head and sends Miles a scathing look. He removes the heavy paper from the envelope and slowly unfolds it. _Dear Mr. Taylor,_ _We are..._ The rest of the words swim vertiginously before his eyes. "Oh, my God." He is positively green. "I'm going to be sick."

Throwing the letter to the ground, he jumps up off of the couch and bolts to the bathroom. As he kneels on the cold hard tiles, dry heaving into the toilet, he hears Miles' jubilant shout from the other room:

"_Justin, you got in!_"

**3:26 PM. October 20, 2012.**

**Justin's POV**

They are in the rooftop club at the Gramercy Park Hotel and Justin is leaning against the cement ledge, staring out at the city.

Miles comes up behind him and drops his chin onto his shoulder. "What do you think?"

"It's got good light."

"It's got good light?"

"Mm. I'd like to paint here."

Miles scoffs, kissing him on the cheek. He turns him, pulling him in until their chests were pressed together. "What about, 'it's beautiful and I can't wait to marry you here?'"

"On a rooftop?" He leans in so that their wedding planner won't be able to hear him. His lips brush Miles' ear as he whispers. "Don't you think that's a little..._gay_?"

Miles tosses his head back and laughs. "I think that's the point."

Justin smiles. "You know what I meant."

"I do," Miles pauses and begins to dance with him, rocking him back and forth and then swirling him around like a fairy princess. "I think that it's, like..._ridiculously_ romantic."

"_Mind if I borrow your date?"_

_Brian was pulling him by his hand and he was smirking at the way that he was able to wordlessly part the crowd in front of them as he dragged him onto the dance floor._

_You can dance every dance with the guy_

_Who gives you the eye, let him hold you tight_

_A white silk scarf draped across his neck._

_You can smile every smile for the man  
Who held your hand 'neath the pale moon light_

_They were moving and he was laughing. Laughing because he had no idea that Brian could dance, laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of two fags dancing at Prom in front of all of St. James' Academy. He tossed his head back._

_But don't forget who's takin' you home  
And in whose arms you're gonna be_

_A childlike grin broke out across Brian's features. Justin had never seen Brian smile the way that he was smiling right now._

_So darlin' save the last dance for me_

_Brian was an amazing dance partner. They were sweeping the floor in broad arcing circles._

_Oh I know that the music's fine  
Like sparklin' wine, go and have your fun_

_When Brian spun him, Justin could see that every single eye in the room was focused on them. As he caught him and pulled him in close, their noses brushed and Brian's breath tickled his cheek._

_Laugh and sing, but while we're apart  
Don't give your heart to anyone_

_Brian had pulled his hand in close and he could feel Brian's heart beating rapidly beneath their clasped hands._

_But don't forget who's takin' you home  
And in whose arms you're gonna be  
So darlin' save the last dance for me_

_Daphne was grinning incandescently at them and as Brian spun him again, he thought that her eyes looked a little glassier than usual._

_Baby don't you know I love you so  
Can't you feel it when we touch  
I will never never let you go  
I love you oh so much_

_Another nose graze. His skin smelled amazing._

_You can dance, go and carry on  
Till the night is gone  
And it's time to go_

_He slipped his hands into Brian's jacket._

_If he asks if you're all alone  
Can he walk you home, you must tell him no_

_He slid his jacket from his shoulders and then helped him take it off._

_'Cause don't forget who's taking you home  
And in whose arms you're gonna be_

_He tossed it to Daphne. God, he felt like a rockstar right now._

_So darlin' save the last dance for me_

_And then they were dancing again and Brian's hand on his back was possessive and firm._

_'Cause don't forget who's taking you home  
And in whose arms you're gonna be_

_He was bending him backwards and he was momentarily afraid of falling. He knew that Brian wouldn't drop him but he slid his leg up over Brian's ass as a security measure. _

_So darling, save the last dance for me_

_He was flying and then suddenly he wasn't anymore and Brian's hand was on the back of his neck and he was pulling him in for a kiss. He'd never considered himself as much of an exhibitionist as Brian, but fuck, this was _hot.

_Save the last dance for me_

_He was still kissing him. In front of _everyone_. They were going to die._

_Save the last dance for me._

_He was pulling him by the hand again and they were running through the crowd and out of the building._

_Save the last dance for me._

_Save the last dance for me._

Justin drops his hands to Miles' chest and shoves him away. He remembers, he remembers—oh _God_, he _remembers_. He hadn't think that he ever would but he has and suddenly he is right back to where he'd been eleven years ago and he is eighteen years old again, head-over-heels in love with Brian Kinney, and scared shitless.

"Justin?" Miles bites his lip and moves in to comfort him. "Did I say something wrong?"

"You know what?" Justin is visibly shaking and he can't even get it out without stammering. "I—I have to go."

He'd run but he hadn't been able to make it out of the hotel. He'd ended up dashing into one of the bathrooms in the lobby, dropping to his knees and emptying the contents of his stomach into one of the toilets. He fills the air with big heaving gulping sobs and he knows that his heart was breaking. He can feel it.

He doesn't go home that night. He doesn't even leave the hotel. After he's gotten himself under control, he waits until he is positive beyond that there is no way that Miles is anywhere within a fifty mile radius. It takes almost that long to steady himself, but he waits a little longer just to be sure. He books himself into a room and orders a couple of drinks from room service. More than a couple. Between those and having eaten next to nothing the entire day—_and _his raid of the minibar—it doesn't take long until he is teetering on the edge of conscious. He doesn't know if he's ever been this drunk before. He has been crying off and on for hours and it isn't until he is too tired to cry anymore that he decides to call Pittsburgh.

"Michael?"

"Justin? Is everything alright?" God, it is good to hear Michael's voice.

"Michael?" His voice sounds like a little boy, even to him. "I want to come home."

"What do you mean you want to come home? What the hell is the matter with you?" Michael clearly isn't getting it.

"I need to come home." Fuck, he _really_ isn't getting it. This is ridiculous, even for Michael.

A heavy pause. "Justin, have you been drinking?"

He remembers the way that Brian's face had looked. How much he'd loved him—past tense—had been plastered all over it for the whole world to see.

"I remember," Justin moans. "I remember all of it."

Michael clearly doesn't know what to say.

"He loved me so much," his voice breaks. "Why didn't anybody ever tell me how much he loved me?"

He disconnects.

**Brian's POV**

He's just gotten back to his hotel when his phone goes off in his pocket. He glances at the call display before answering. Michael.

"Mikey," he greets him by way of acknowledgement.

"Where are you?"

"In New York, at my hotel."

"Thank God," Michael is speaking so quickly that he can hardly make out the words. "Listen, Justin called me—"

"Fuck off, Michael." Justin isn't his responsibility anymore. He is a big boy now and Brian doesn't want to hear about his shit.

"—you need to go find him. Something's happened."

His stomach drops and he breaks out in a cool sweat. "What do you mean, something's happened?"

"He's in rough shape, Bri. He called here an hour ago and he's a complete mess."

"Michael," he says, exasperated but trying his hardest to be patient, "if you don't tell me what's going on, I can't help anyone."

"Brian, I've never heard him like this, before. He was crying, and—"

"And he's alive?"

"You don't get it!" Michael is yelling at him now—_so_ unnecessarily, he might add—and he holds the phone away from his ear. Fucking drama princess. "He remembers, Brian. He re-mem-bers."

They both know what Michael means, what it is that Justin remembers. Neither of them needs to say it and they don't. It hangs heavily in the air, in the tenuous connection between them just like so many other things—most of them about Justin—do.

"No, _you_ don't get it," Brian snaps. "This isn't my problem. He broke all the rules, _he's the one who left me._ He ended it just like he ended it _every fucking time before_."

"Brian, you don't understand—"

"No, _you _don't understand, Michael. Listen to me carefully, because I'm going to say this once and I'm not going to repeat myself to you or anyone else ever again. Justin Taylor means _nothing_ to me anymore. I don't want to _see_ him, I don't want to _talk_ about him, and I don't want to _hear_ about him." His blood is fucking boiling now and he clutches his phone in a white knuckled death grip. "So mind your own goddamn _fucking _business and leave me be," he says coldly and disconnects.

**6:29 PM. August 6, 2008**

**Brian's POV**

He is going to tell him. He isn't going to fuck it up like he'd done last time. _Ibiza_. He still can't believe that Justin had fallen for that as long as he did. For someone who prides himself on knowing Brian better than he knows himself, Justin Taylor is a twat.

When Brian had been diagnosed with cancer, he'd been destroyed. And with testicular cancer, of all fucking things. He remembered thinking, Christ, someone's got a sense of humour.

Brian Kinney, _testicular_ cancer?

It would have been comedic had it not been so tragic.

He remembered getting the news. It'd floored him in a way that nothing ever had before. He'd never been so scared. Justin getting bashed was one thing and he'd been absolutely terrified, but never at any point before in his life had he been so scared for _himself_. He'd known from the moment he found out that he wouldn't tell anyone. He was stronger than that. He didn't need anyone else to freak out and cry and scream and worry because he was already doing enough of that himself. But he had allowed himself a moment to think about what it would be like to tell Justin. How good it would feel to share the weight of his burden with someone else and their shoulders. He hadn't allowed himself to consider the possibility that Justin wouldn't have been repulsed or thought less of him for being so _mortal_ as to be diagnosed with an illness. He hadn't bothered to consider the possibility that Justin would have handled the entire situation with more grace and humility than should have been possible for _anyone_, let alone a twenty year old piece of ass that he picked up at Babylon. But he should have.

He isn't freaking out. When he'd found another lump on his other testicle, he'd calmly called his oncologist and scheduled an emergency appointment for the following day. He isn't freaking out, not yet, not until the biopsy results come in, but he knew as soon as he realised something was wrong that he was going to do it very differently this time.

He was going to tell Justin.

He knew that springing the news on him was going to be hard, especially _now_, but he had booked the tickets months ago. He was going to New York just as he'd done for the last three years. And as much as he didn't want to tell Justin in person, he knew that there was no way that he could do it over the phone. It wasn't going to be good. Things hadn't been going well between the two of them for the last few months. He'd been insanely busy with Kinnetik and had had to cancel three different weekends. He'd been short-tempered and snappish at him on the phone—he _always_ seemed to call at the most inopportune moments—and when they _had_ talked, the conversations had been awkward and stilted.

Coming to New York for what would have been their wedding anniversary had originally been his way of proving to Justin that even if he had proposed to make him happy, he had, in fact, changed. He'd never told him that coming to New York was his way of showing him that he was perfectly capable of making promises and committing, even if the very word did make him gag a little when he least expected it.

So when he'd found out that Justin was being featured in a prestigious showcase for undergraduate students the day before, he'd booked an earlier flight and told Justin that he was sorry he wouldn't be able to make it and that he'd see him on their "anniversary" as planned. He was going to surprise him, he was going to say that he was sorry, and the whole thing was going to be ridiculously romantic. But he knows that it won't be, not now, not with the imminent possibility of his relapse hanging above their heads.

He decides to drop off his bags at the hotel and change before he goes to the show. He is a little wrinkled from the plane and, though he hates to admit it, he wants to look his best. He always does, but this time his motives are not as selfish as they usually are. He knows that when he walks into the gallery he will be the hottest man in the room, he always is. This time, though, what everyone else thinks is not important to him. He wants to look good for Justin. When he finally arrives, vehicles are backed up for blocks so he pays his driver and takes the last stretch on foot.

By the time he gets to the gallery, the showcase is in full swing. He cranes his neck over the crowd in an attempt to spot Justin, but he can't see him. He laments, not for the first time, that Justin is absolutely impossible to find in a crowd because he is just so fucking short. He starts pushing his way through the crush of bodies surrounding him until he recognises the back of his head. He moves to the side and he sees that Justin is standing with another man. He must have said something funny because he can see Justin flash him a smile and grab his forearm before tossing his head back and laughing. What happens next seems to move painfully slowly. Justin is laughing and then the other man pulls him into his body and they are staring at each other intently. And then the other man is tilting his head, moving closer and there was a long moment of pause as he whispers something against Justin's lips and kisses him deeply. It isn't a friendly kiss and Brian knows without a shadow of a doubt that this man loves him because he is looking at Justin in the same way that Brian has looked at him a hundred times, a thousand times, for the last eight years.

**Justin's POV**

Less than twenty-four hours later, Justin stands near the baggage corral at La Guardia until the crowds clear and every last piece of luggage has been claimed.

Brian doesn't come.

**Brian's POV**

He isn't okay after that. He doesn't remember getting back to his hotel room but somehow he has and grabs his luggage and takes another taxi to the airport. He catches the next flight back to Pittsburgh. He hops into his car, stops at a liquor store on the way and drives to Britin. He is sprawled fully clothed across the bed and the room is lurching in an awkward fashion but one that is not at all unpleasant.

It isn't the way it'd been before, not when Justin had left him for Ethan and not when he'd left him for New York. Because both of those times he'd still known when he were truly honest with himself that the little twat still loved him.

It isn't like it was before because never before had Justin looked at anyone else the way that he'd looked at him.

There'd been no engagement, no wedding announcements, no domestic togetherness. Not the kind that they'd had and not this new kind that he's seen tonight. He'd always recognised how deeply Justin had loved him. He'd never doubted that he'd have gone to the end of the Earth and back for him; the utter lack of concern for his own wellbeing had been something that he'd relished.

This new kind of togetherness is different. It is healthy, and not all-consuming or destructive. But it seeps out of the very way that they seem to orient themselves around each other, a constant and almost imperceptible adjustment of their bodies, searching and hyperaware of the other's location in relation to their own. It isn't a bit like what they'd had and it breaks his heart.

* * *

**A/N: _Queer as Folk_ and its characters, etc., belong to Showtime and CowLip.**

**Title's John Mayer's, Save the Last Dance for Me is Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman's.  
**

**So, yeah. This was sad to write. Too much angst. **

**Comments and criticisms always help ;) **

**Let me know what you think!**


	4. Chapter 4

**10:23 AM. October 21, 2012**

**Brian's POV**

There isn't a whole lot to do at the Gramercy Park Hotel on a Sunday morning besides go to brunch. Brian loathe brunch, which is why he isn't going. Kinnetik waits.

If his elevator would ever get to ground level.

As the elderly couple who had occupied it before him get off on the floor below his, he can't help but feel relieved...until the doors open again on the floor below _that_.

No, it isn't possible.

Brian starts to laugh. Someone has a _very_ sick sense of humour because standing on the other side of the door looking just as stunned as he feels is Justin. Who looks like shit, by the way. His grey linen trousers are wrinkled beyond salvation and the ice blue cashmere sweater he is wearing has also seen _much _better days. His eyes are red rimmed and so swollen that he can barely open them.

_Brian was shaking his head disapprovingly as the elevator stopped and he slid open the door to his loft. He knew that Justin was being a little drama queen. It couldn't have been _that _bad and he was sure that there was absolutely no reason in the world for him to have left work early. It was just an allergic reaction._

_He called out Justin's name. A moan came from the bedroom and he took the stairs two at a time, just because he could._

"_Did you bring it?" _

_He couldn't make out Justin's form in the tangle of blankets on the bed, but he was almost certain that he was in there somewhere. He sat down on the edge of the bed and spoke to the mound. "Yeah. C'mere."_

"_Don't laugh."_

_Brian rolled his eyes. "Justin," he said reproachfully. "Come. Here."_

_As Justin moved into view, Brian's mouth dropped open in surprise and he stifled the urge to laugh immediately. "Holy Christ!"_

_Justin's entire face had broken out in hives and his eyes were so puffy that he wondered if he could even see through them._

_Justin moaned pathetically and covered his face with his hands. His voice was thick. "It's not funny!"_

_The hives were by no means confined to his face. They covered his neck, chest, and hands and only God knew where else. The sheer misery that was etched on Justin's face convinced him that now really wasn't the time for jokes and he brushed his hair back from his forehead and pulled the allergy medication from the bag and opened it. _

_Justin took one glance to make sure that he'd purchased the right kind and took a hearty swig from the bottle after having torn the packaging open and thrown it on the floor. He dropped from his sitting position dramatically back to the bed. _

_Brian leaned in and kissed each of his swollen eyelids before stretching out on the bed in his suit beside him. He could see that Justin wanted nothing more than to scratch the hell out of his face and arms. It would be unfortunate. Justin really was quite pretty. He realised that fighting the lesbionic feelings that were coming over him would probably do more harm than good at this point, so he crossed Justin's arms on his chest and pulled him close, stroking his hair until the medication kicked in and he fell into a drug-induced sleep._

He hasn't shaven, his hair falls disorderly across his brow. It's almost longer than Brian has ever seen it and he has to remind himself that he cannot run his hands through it because they are no longer together. He balls them up against his thighs instead.

"Fuck me," Justin croaks and steps in, leaning into the opposite wall and putting as much distance between the two of them as he possibly can.

Brian tries to control his laughter and fails miserably. It really isn't nice, not that it had ever mattered before. He decides that it doesn't matter now either.

"Long night?"

Justin glares at him and says nothing.

"I thought so."

The silence in the elevator is stifling.

**Justin's POV**

He'd forgotten that he'd called Michael.

Shit.

Brian is laughing again. "You mean you don't remember your long-distance phone call to Pittsburgh last night?"

Justin is quiet.

"How convenient," Brian responds silkily and even though every inch of his skin is straining towards him, Justin stays where he is.

He has never been so sure of anything in his life as he is of the fact that in this moment, in this place, God clearly hates him. And not just because he is gay.

They ride the rest of the way in silence and when Justin rushes into the lobby, Brian grabs him by the crook of the elbow and spins him around. He leans into the touch more than he should and his recoil is delayed.

Brian clears his throat. "You should call Michael and let him know that you're alright. He was a little upset when he called me last night."

Christ.

He tries to sneak into the apartment without bumping into Miles but, again, God hates him because he pounces on him almost the second that he opens the door.

"Where the _hell_ have you been?" Miles enunciates each word carefully and his voice is quiet and controlled.

He is so fucking tired. "Not now, Miles."

"No, no, no, no, no. Where do you think you're going?"

"To take a shower."

He makes it to their bedroom and is in the process of stripping his clothes off before Miles catches up to him. He drops to the bed to take off his socks and shoes. Miles sits down beside him and lays a careful hand on his knee.

"Justin," he pleads with him, softly, "what's going on?"

He stands up and walks into the bathroom. Miles follows him. He turns on the shower with little regard for temperature, kicks his pants and underwear to the ground and steps in, slamming the door closed behind him.

The whole thing would have been much more effective and dramatic had the shower not been made entirely of glass. Miles can still see him on the other side of the door. He regards him for a few moments and then gives him his privacy.

As soon as Miles has left, Justin sinks to the ground and drops his head into his hands, letting the too hot water run and run until it runs itself cold.

He loses track of how long he sits on the floor of the shower in the cold water but he notices belatedly that his teeth are chattering and then Miles is there, pulling him to his feet and helping him into bed, joining him in bed and wrapping his body around him because he is just so damn cold.

Sometime later he kisses his hair. "Are you having second thoughts?" he murmurs.

_Yes. _

"No."

"Was it something I did?"

_Yes. _

"No."

"Were you with someone?"

_Sort of._

"No."

"Are you okay?"

_Not really. _

"Yes."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

_With _you_?_

"No."

They don't talk about it again after they leave the bed some hours later and by the next morning Miles is pretending that it hadn't happened at all.

**10:49 AM. November 2, 2012**

**Justin's POV**

They go for brunch with Miles' parents every first Sunday of the month. Justin loves them and they have treated him like a son for the seven years that he has known Miles. Even in the beginning when the two of them were nothing more than friends, they would often stop by Miles' apartment unannounced which Miles found annoying and Justin found sweet. When they'd told them that they had made the transition from best friends to lovers, Miles' father had smiled and shook his hand and his mother had folded him into her arms, kissed him on the cheek, and told Miles that he should hang onto him because he was a keeper. Seven years is a long time and he supposes that they have become his surrogate parents in New York since Jen is not often able to visit and Craig still pretends that he doesn't exist.

Miles knows about Brian. It wasn't always as it was now. There was a time not long ago when Justin would talk about Brian to whoever would listen. _They_ used to talk about him often but then Brian's visits grew fewer and farther between and the distance between them became more than physical until one day when Justin finally snapped and told Miles that if he ever again said the name Brian Kinney in his presence he'd never speak to him again. But by the time they'd become romantically involved and Justin had wanted nothing _more_ than to talk about it, Miles was no longer interested in hearing about him.

Miles knows about Brian and he knows Justin and in knowing these things he also knows that the only thing that would have unhinged Justin in the way that it has is Brian. To say that things have been tense between them since he'd remembered Prom is an understatement. They've been living like strangers for the two weeks since it's happened. They are admittedly still sleeping in the same bed but they aren't intentionally touching and they sure as hell aren't fucking. They move through the apartment in an uncomfortable stupor, groping for the comfortable ease that they've had together from the beginning. Neither one of them will admit that anything is wrong and, worst of all, the charade that they are putting on for both of their sakes is exhausting.

The bistro where the monthly Sunday brunches are held is a few blocks away from Justin's studio. The choice of venue hadn't been an accident. Sundays are when he likes to paint most and he'd often be up at the crack of dawn painting and would join them afterward.

As fate would have it, he'd left even earlier than usual this morning, gotten distracted, and had ended up over forty minutes late. Miles' parents are perfectly gracious, but Miles is furious and refuses to speak to him for the duration of the meal. Justin is remarkably unperturbed by it all.

When they finally return to their building after an awkward ride back with Miles' parents, they continue their awkward limbo-like behaviour until they reach their apartment. As soon as Justin closes the door behind him, all hell breaks loose.

"If you were going to sit there and sulk, you shouldn't have come." Miles is right in his face.

There isn't anywhere for him to go. "I wasn't _sulking_."

"Really? Because you were doing a pretty good job of acting like you were."

"I'm surprised you noticed. You were pretty busy acting like a child yourself."

"_I'm _a child? I'm not the one who's still pining away—"

"Miles," Justin cautions. They are on unsteady ground.

Miles ignores him and goes on. "—_pining _away over some _asshole_—"

"I'm not having this conversation with you."

"—who doesn't and hasn't loved you—"

"You're _unbelievable_."

"—for more than four years!"

"You don't have _any_ idea what you're talking about!" Justin is so angry that his vision blurs. "What's the matter? Are you jealous, Miles?"

"You're damn right I am!" Miles stalked away from him.

Justin isn't normally a fan of conflict; he is much more passive aggressive than that. With the exception of what he did with Cody, he hasn't been in a physical fight since high school. And those, few and far between as they'd been, hadn't been pretty. But for some reason he is unsure of, he isn't going to let this drop.

"Is that really what you're going to do? Just walk away from me?" He follows him into his office.

Miles is sitting on the edge of his desk. "Get out, Justin."

"No." He's not afraid.

"_Leave_."

"_No._"

And he doesn't know how it happens or who initiates it but somehow he is between Miles legs and his hands are pulling Miles closer. His hands tug at his hair and jerk his head back and they are kissing. Justin can taste blood in his mouth and he is fairly sure that his lip is bleeding from Miles' teeth. There is a loud crash as they clear everything that had been on the desk onto the floor and then Miles' hands fumble at his belt. He isn't exactly sure where the condom comes from but he doesn't wonder for long because he is too busy yanking Miles' pants over his hips and then, holy Christ, Miles is pulling him on top of him and he is fucking him into the desk.

* * *

**A/N: _Queer as Folk_ and its characters, etc., belong to Showtime and CowLip.**

**Just as I was about to post this, I realised that the entire story had shifted tense. This chapter made me decide that I liked things happening in the present (it helps to differentiate flashbacks from the actual non-linear plot) so I went back and moved the last three chapters into the present as well. I hope that it works. Most of the time I'm undecided on whether or not I like present tense narratives: sometimes they're perfect, and sometimes I really, really hate them. Does anyone else feel like this?**

**Anyway, comments and criticisms are the best and you should let me know what you think!**


	5. Chapter 5

**1:34 PM. November 2, 2012**

**Justin's POV**

When it's over, he hates himself. He doesn't know how these things happen but they do and they're not fair to either of them. He and Miles have fucked on most of the surfaces in their apartment before, but the office has always been off limits for him and Miles has never asked. It's rather difficult to have sex with your current boyfriend and the man that you do, admittedly, love when all of the memories of the man whom you have always and will always love are watching you and running through your head. When he'd collapsed on Miles damp back afterward, he hadn't been quite sure what to do. He knew that the smart thing to do would be to take Miles back to bed and have some more make-up sex. The slower kind that isn't a way of hurting someone without hurting them, the kind that says I'm sorry, I love you, don't leave me. But instead he'd pulled out roughly, wincing inwardly when he'd heard the soft gasp from Miles' mouth, tied the condom and tossed it in the trash. From the doorway, he watches Miles jerk his pants up and lets him take him by the hand into their bedroom and do all of the things that he doesn't really want to do.

**Brian's POV**

He has been at Kinnetik for over two hours and it has been even longer than that since he has seen Justin. His fingers are going to bruise if he doesn't stop drumming them on the table. He sat down in his desk when he got to his office and fired up his computer as soon as he got there, but hasn't gotten any further than that. In a moment of weakness—or several—he even dialed Justin's number, but he doesn't like to own up to that and decides he doesn't have to, seeing as how he pressed the end button instead of the call.

It was easy to talk himself out of going to him last night. It's been a long time since he's seen Justin and it is always easier to hate him when he doesn't have to look at his blonde hair and tight ass and warm generous smile. He can convince himself that Justin means nothing to him when he isn't touching him through his clothes and seeing the stark honesty—that he still loves him, that he'll always love him—in his eyes.

He knows that he should call Justin. He remembers and that means something to both of them even though he wishes it didn't. There isn't any point in pretending that it doesn't. He was the one who'd taken him in after the bashing. He listened and held him when he'd wake up screaming from nightmares. He worked with him through his physical therapy and when all else had failed and Brian hadn't known what else to do, he fucked him until they both remembered what it was like to be a human being, to be _whole_, again.

He doesn't want to call Justin. He has been angry with him for a very long time and it is difficult for him to remember what it is like to feel anything other than anger towards him. He knows that he still loves him but he also remembers that Justin knew that when he'd started screwing Ethan behind his back, he knew that when he'd gone to New York, and he knew it, too, when he'd decided to leave him for Miles, and all of these facts seem to weigh more heavily because, when he dials Justin's number one last time, he not only presses the end button but shuts his phone off and puts it in the drawer of his desk.

**Justin's POV**

He hurts Miles in the office but it is what happens after that makes him want the ground to open up and consume him whole. He lets Miles finish undressing him and press him into the mattress. He makes all of the appropriate noises and does all of the right things but he doesn't feel them and his eyes are squeezed shut because when Miles' voice rasps with lust and tells him that he is sorry and he loves him and will he please never ever leave him it sounds enough like Brian's that he pretends it is.

**9:19 PM. February 14, 2007**

**Brian's POV**

When Justin surprises him by coming home to Pittsburgh for Valentine's Day, his eyes itch uncomfortably and the sarcastic retort that he is planning to say catches in his throat.

It's been a long fucking day and when Brian walks into the loft and sees Justin asleep in his bed wearing one of his t-shirts, he forgets about his incompetent and moronic employees, and how much he hates this day among all days, climbing into bed with his blonde no-longer-teenage lover who, at 23, still looks like a child.

He curves his body into Justin. He smiles when he feels him relax against him in sleep, as if he were tired of waiting for him to come home. Normally he wakes him up to fuck him, but the deep purple circles marring the pale skin under Justin's eyes persuade him for the moment to let him sleep.

He's not tired yet, but there's nowhere else he'd rather be. He glances at the nightstand on what he cannot deny is Justin's side of the bed and stares at the black velvet box that is open like it always is on the nightstand.

It's been sitting there for more than a year and he wonders what Justin's reaction to it had been. He would have had to have seen it. It is the first time that Justin's been home since leaving and Brian knows that he never would have mentioned it to him in passing. They sit there not as a punishment or a reminder but as a promise to himself that he hasn't made a mistake—he doesn't have to fuck it up every single time. He can be happy, he can have a future, and he can have—will always _want _to have—these things with Justin.

Careful not to wake him, he reaches across Justin's unconscious body and picks up the box. He holds it in his hand for a very long time before removing the smaller platinum band and sliding it almost reverently onto Justin's finger. His follows and when it's done he entwines their left hands with their matching bands, pulls them to Justin's heart and closes his eyes.

When Brian opens his eyes, it's still mostly dark and his arms are empty. But Justin is awake and he is perched on the edge of the bed doing something that Brian has not seen him do for quite some time. His sketchbook is open across his knees and his hand is moving quickly across its surface. Justin is regarding him with a most curious expression on his face. Brian can't tell if he is going to laugh, scream, or cry.

**Justin's POV**

Justin can tell that Brian is awake but he doesn't say anything. They stay there for several more minutes in the early morning silence as he feels his hand begin to ache. He pushes past the pain because he needs to create a lasting impression of this moment. He is almost done when his hand begins to shake violently and the tremor forces a dark gash across what would have been a perfect likeness.

He curses under his breath as his hand seizes up painfully but before he even has time to react, Brian leans over and begins to carefully massage it like he has done most of the times when Justin has pushed himself too far in the last five years.

Brian is gentle but Justin can't stop himself from gasping when he starts to unfurl his hand and stretch the muscles.

"You should have stopped."

When his hand is no longer throbbing, he sets the abandoned art supplies and sets them on the nightstand. He lies down on his side facing Brian, who takes his right hand between his own and holds it between them. Justin grips Brian's wrist with his left hand. Both of their rings are visible now and he is struggling to put any one of the million thoughts racing through his mind into words. He doesn't know if he should.

**Brian's POV**

He slides his top hand out and runs it over the length of Justin's scalp. It stops on the back of Justin's neck and Justin's eyes are searching his frantically when he says it:

"Stop thinking."

Justin smiles weakly.

It's strange when Justin doesn't talk and since he has long grown accustomed to his incessant chatter silence feels strange. When Justin is still staring at him, scared and disbelieving, he drops his other hand in the space between them and slowly starts sliding the band from Justin's finger. He feels the need to elaborate. "I mean it. See? It doesn't mean anything." His hands are cold and it comes off easily.

Justin finally speaks. "Don't."

Don't what? Don't take it off? Don't be such a lesbian?

Brian stops just as the he is about to slide the ring off of Justin's last knuckle.

"Don't," Justin says again and he realises that he is telling him that it does and will always mean something. When Justin kisses him, he can feel his ring, back where he had put it last night, against the side of his face.

When they go to the diner later that morning, Debbie is ecstatic to see Justin. She hones in on the rings within minutes of them sitting down.

"What the fuck are those?!"

Justin looks at him and shrugs when he sees the amused expression on his face.

"Rings," he deadpans and Brian laughs.

They have come to have breakfast together before Brian has to stop in to work. He has already made all of the appropriate calls and arrangements and will not be in until Justin goes back to New York on Sunday night.

**Justin's POV**

Justin knows that Debbie is losing her mind. When Brian stands to leave after breakfast, he kisses him goodbye and tells him that he can pick him up on his way home. He wants to spend some time with Debbie, whom he has not seen since he moved.

The second that the bell on the door signals Brian's exit, she slips into his vacated spot across the table and wordlessly grabs his hand. The characteristic screech of her voice is gone and she is speaking very quietly, "What the fucking hell is this?"

"A ring," he tells her again.

"That's not what I meant."

He has never seen her like this before. She looks..._angry_ at him.

He tells her that he doesn't know what she means, then.

"Sunshine," she says slowly, "I love you. Brian loves you. And I love Brian like a son and I know that for him to love you, it means that he is going to love you unconditionally until the day he dies. That's how he is."

He says her name.

She shakes her head and continues. "Now, I know that you love him, too. But you're young. You have your whole life ahead of you. And it's going to be great. But are you sure that you're going to love him in ten, twenty, forty years?"

"Of course I am."

"I hope that you do. For his sake." She drops his hand to the table, stands up and goes back to work.

**2:52 AM. November 3, 2012**

**Justin's POV**

He's having the nightmare again. He hasn't had it in years—not since before he came to New York. He's been having it almost every night since he remembered the Prom. Sometimes he thrashes and cries so loudly that Miles hears him and wakes him up, but most of the time he doesn't because Miles is a much deeper sleeper than Brian ever was. Most nights, Justin wakes up alone and clutches his knees to his chest and wishes that he were anywhere but where he is. He prays to a god he doesn't believe in for the memories to fade and the nightmares to stop. Eventually he falls back asleep and forgets about it in the morning.

Tonight, though, he doesn't fall asleep and he is more scared than he has been in a very long time. Eventually he realises that the gasping keening noises in the room are coming from his chest and after almost 10 minutes of this, Miles finally wakes up.

He sits up and grabs him by the shoulders, strokes his hair, asks him what is wrong.

It isn't until he feels Miles freeze and pull away that he realises that it is Brian's name that he has been chanting over and over until it no longer sounds like a word.

In the morning Miles tells him that he should talk to someone. Justin knows that Miles means a therapist. He agrees that he should talk to someone. He just thinks that that someone should be Brian.

* * *

**A/N: _Queer as Folk_ and its characters, etc., belong to Showtime and CowLip.**

**Since I'm sure that most of you probably hate me by now for causing the boys so much grief, I think everyone should know that they _will_ be together in the end. Long and convoluted as it may be, they're Brian and Justin. They're endgame. Have a little faith ;)  
**

**Anyway, comments and criticisms are the best and you should let me know what you think!**


	6. Chapter 6

**11:58 PM. August 7, 2008**

**Justin's POV**

"I was worried about you when I didn't see you at the airport. Did something happen?"

"Something came up."

"You couldn't have called? I waited there for three hours for you!"

"I was stuck in meetings. My phone was off."

"..."

"..."

"I thought that you were coming."

"It was last minute."

"I really wanted you to be here."

"Yeah, well. You can't always get what you want."

"Brian, what the hell is going on with you?"

"I can't do this."

"You can't do what?"

"This. Us. The whole Stepford fags, happily ever after, lesbionic shit."

"I never asked you to do any of that. I never _asked_ you for rings or a house or any of the rest of it."

"Not with words, you didn't."

"I don't need any of that! Brian, I love you."

"Really? So it's okay with you if I start fucking other people again?"

"If that's what makes you happy, then, yes."

"I don't want to know what will make me happy! I want to know what the fuck you want from me!"

"Say it."

"Justin..."

"No, I want you to say it. Out loud."

"..."

"You don't love me anymore."

"..."

"You son of a bitch. Say it. If you don't love me anymore—which I still believe that you _do_, for the record—then I deserve to hear it from you."

"I don't love you anymore."

"Fuck you."

Justin takes the ring that he has been twisting on his finger for the last 45 minutes and throws it across the room as hard as he can. It's the first time it's left his finger since Brian put it there.

**9:27 AM. November 3, 2012**

**Brian's POV**

He is going to kill Cynthia. She's always had a soft spot for Justin, but this time she's gone too far.

"I just need to talk to you."

He can tell that Justin hasn't been sleeping. He looks better than he did the other night, but his eyes are still tired and his mouth is tight.

There is an awkward weight pressing in on them. Brian's offices have never been places that they've gotten very much talking done.

He sighs and opens his mouth to speak but Justin interrupts him. "Please?" he asks quietly. "There isn't anyone else."

Justin is lying. There are plenty of other people but Miles and Ethan or any of the other nameless, faceless transients have never been very high on his list of priorities so he ignores this inaccuracy on Justin's part.

"Fine." He rises from his desk and brushes past Justin to pause at the door. "But not here."

They end up deciding to go to Justin's studio because it's close and it's private. His half-started paintings are scattered everywhere. Even though they're not finished, there is no denying how good they are. They're abstract and they're chaotic, but they are beautiful and there is a method to their madness. They make you feel things and he knows that it is this, and not their technical skill, that has made Justin successful.

Brian sits on one of the bar stools, his suit jacket draped across its back, in the kitchenette and Justin stands on the other side of the counter. He paces and gestures wildly and Brian listens—he _does—_but mostly he watches him and fights the urge to touch him while he speaks.

He'd never really paid attention to how physical they were when they were together. The sexual stuff, _that_ was obvious, but there was also a _lot _of non-sexual touching. It wasn't until he lost the right to touch Justin that he realised how much he actually did.

**Justin's POV**

He is going to tell him everything.

"I know that you don't want to talk about this."

He sighs. "It's not that I won't. I just can't."

"I know that," he says, coming around the counter and sitting beside him on a stool.

Brian's brows furrow. "Then why are you asking me to do this?"

"I just—I need to talk about it," he finishes lamely.

**Brian's POV**

"No." His jaw flexes. Doesn't he get that Prom and their dance and what happened afterward are all inextricably linked? There is no discussing one without discussing the others.

"Why?" Justin is getting angry. "I understand that it was hard for you. But it didn't—"

"It didn't happen to me? Yeah, I _know_ that!"

He is shouting and he can't believe that he's doing this. He knows he should stop because these are things that he's never told Justin before. But unfortunately for him, it isn't often that he does what he is supposed to. "But you know what? I wished that it had."

Justin stares at him like he's never seen him before.

"I spent _months_ wishing that it had," he tells him bitterly.

"What?" Justin physically recoils beside him and is looking at him with a mixture of pity and incredulity and he hates that.

"I saw it happen, you know. And I had to sit there on the cement with you when you were bleeding so much that I thought you were dead. And waiting for the ambulance to come? That was fun, too. My favourite parts, though, were the nights that I sat at the hospital and watched you sleep because they didn't know whether or not you were going to be able to wake up."

"What?" His voice is nothing but a whisper.

"You didn't know that, did you?"

"Of course I knew that," Justin says quickly. "The scarf—"

"The scarf?" He lets out a harsh laugh and then scoffs. "And you just thought that by taking it off you would be able to, what? Metaphorically free me from my inner pain? Don't be condescending, Justin. It doesn't suit you." He can see from the expression on Justin's face that that is _exactly_ what he thought. He probably shouldn't have mocked him.

"It wasn't your fault."

"Don't you think that I know that?" He hates that he is hurting Justin.

"No," he says quietly, laying a hand on his arm, "I don't think that you really do."

He jerks his arm away and slides off the stool. He needs to get away from him. He can't stand being touched right now.

"Don't touch me."

**Justin's POV**

He always does this. He gets mad and he starts acting deranged. It's like he's a feral animal backed into a corner, lashing out at anyone who tries to get close. They both hate him when he acts like this—Justin, only a little, but Brian, a _lot_. He follows him to the ground and then to the window on the other side of the studio. He wraps his arms around Brian's torso and says his name.

"Fuck off." At least he's not pushing him away.

He's speaking into the back of his neck. "It wasn't your fault."

"I know that."

"I never, ever, blamed you."

"I know that." He jerks away again and Justin sighs inwardly. "_I know that_. So what is the point of all of this? It doesn't matter anymore. No matter how many times we talk about it, it still happened. It's over and I don't want to talk about it anymore."

It doesn't matter anymore? Of course it fucking matters, which is exactly what he tells him.

"So what? You remembered."

"So I _remembered_," he emphasises. "I remembered."

"That's fantastic, Justin. Someone give the boy a round of applause. Shall we sit down and reminisce about things that have come to pass?" He's doing it again. Lashing out.

He ignores him. "Do you know what I remembered, Brian? I remembered how much you loved me. And I remembered that I _still_ love you more than I will ever love anyone. Do you not get that? I'm supposed to be getting married, for Christ's sake!"

**Brian's POV**

He still loves him. The words are hanging in the space between them and he isn't sure what he is supposed to do with them or what he is supposed to say. He hates not knowing. He can't pretend that he hasn't heard them.

"So marry him."

He wants to kick himself the second that the words are out of his mouth, but then he knows exactly what he is supposed to do. He grabs Justin by his upper arms and stares at him for a long moment. It is all he can do not to rip his clothes off and fuck him harder than he knows that he's been fucked in years. When he yanks him up against his body, he is not surprised when Justin doesn't push him away. He never does, not really. He pulls his head back again and gazes at him unflinchingly before kissing him hard.

Justin's lips are pliant and giving and he feels his own soften and respond in turn. He doesn't know how he has not forgotten the way that Justin feels and smells but it is exactly the way that he remembers. It doesn't seem like four years have passed and he realises that they haven't, not really.

_It's only time._

Justin's hands are clawing his back as he tries, unsuccessfully, to get closer. He pulls his mouth away and he stares at him again. He can't believe that this is happening, can't believe that he ever thought that it wouldn't. Someone moves in, he isn't sure who, and they are kissing again. His hand comes up to the back of Justin's neck and feels the goose bumps that have broken out across his skin. He coaxes his mouth open a little wider and they inhale loudly as their tongues meet.

He can't believe that he has not forgotten the way that he tastes. He is such an idiot. They are such idiots. How could either one of them have ever thought that any of the rest of it mattered? It was pretty obvious that it hadn't. He sucks on the tip of Justin's tongue and feels him moan into his mouth as his hands come up to knot in his hair.

His hands steady Justin's head and he breaks away again so that they stare at each other once more. Their foreheads touch and they are breathing each other's air. Justin nuzzles the side of his face with his nose and when he feels his eyelashes on his cheek, something twists in his chest. It's his heart.

**Justin's POV **

He doesn't think about Miles. All there is is Brian: the way the corded muscles in his neck tense under his fingers, the sound of his laboured breathing, the way that he tastes, the smell of his skin as he rubs his nose against his jaw, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes that he hasn't seen in years. He has missed him so much.

When they come together this time, it is much more urgent. It is deeper, it is wetter. Brian's hands are fisted in his shirt, pulling it up and then they are pressing into his back and pulling him upwards until he is practically standing on his feet. They are chest-to-chest now and he can feel Brian's heart racing as quickly as his own beneath his skin. Unbearably aroused. Neither one of them is trying to hide it. Their eyes are open and it's like they can't believe that this is happening, are afraid that it will stop happening if they close their eyes.

There isn't anywhere to go. They fall to their knees on the pale hardwood and he raises his arms so that Brian can slip his shirt over his head. It has been such a long time. His hands come up behind his back to ease him carefully onto his back on the floor. His legs are wrapped around Brian's waist and he can feel that he is shaking. Brian Kinney is nervous?

Brian misses and ends up kissing the side of his mouth by mistake. Justin turns his head as a preventative measure. He pulls back and stares at him disbelievingly again but this time there is no time to waste, so Justin wraps his hand in Brian's tie and pulls him back into his mouth. He scrapes the tip of Brian's tongue with his teeth. Once he realises that he is going to stay put this time, he loosens his tie and sends it flying. He wants to savour the process of undressing him, but he can't and soon his hands are tugging his shirt tails from his pants and unbuttoning it. His hands meet Brian's above his navel and they both manage to strip it from his arms and throw it aside.

He doesn't know how it's possible, but he looks better at forty-one than he had four years ago. He is older, certainly, but age is clearly doing good things for Brian Kinney. Maturity suits him. It's only appropriate, though, and it doesn't really surprise him. No one ever _truly_ believed that Brian Kinney would age.

He runs his hands up Brian's sides and when they skim over his chest, they are clasped between his and held hostage on the floor above his head. He doesn't fight him. Brian's mouth is becoming rougher and more desperate with every passing second. It isn't until Justin moans that Brian finally releases his bruising grip and they go to work at each other's belts.

**Brian's POV**

His eyes are still open and he cannot believe that Justin Taylor has aged. He no longer looks like the fuckable piece of underaged ass that he always has. He would even hazard a guess that he probably wasn't getting cardedwhen he went out anymore. At least not every time.

His skin is almost flawless and he still has the face of an angel but his face is thinner, more angular, but it's his eyes that belie his age. They're slightly creased at the corners—he's always done a lot of smiling. He abandons Justin's pants for a moment—well-fitted, dark wash, he observes. He never thought he would wax nostalgic about his heinous cargos—and his hands come up to his face again, his thumbs steady against his temples.

Justin is still trying to get his belt undone and he remembers where his hands are supposed to be. He rises to his knees which crack as he rises. It's much easier to be on your back on the floor than it is to be on top. Not that he would know. He can see the little bastard smirking at him. He hopes that he gets rugburn—woodburn?—on his ass.

He tosses Justin's belt aside and is surprised to see his hands fumble slightly at the button on his pants. He looks up and knows from the expression on Justin's face that he saw it, too. He unzips them carefully and Justin lifts his hips so that he can ease them down his hips. He wonders if Justin has stopped wearing underwear altogether or if he knew what would happen in coming to see him. He has wriggled out of his socks and tennis shoes and Brian shoves them aside.

Justin Taylor _has _aged. Gone are the days when he could eat whatever he wanted and not gain an ounce. Brian can see telltale signs of a regular workout regime on Justin's body. He's still lean and sleek and smooth—_and, _to Brian's secret pleasure, practically hairless—but there is definition that he knows from experience comes from a gym and not nature.

He runs his hand over Justin's flat stomach appreciatively before dropping back down to his elbows on top of him. Justin's mouth is on his throat and his hands are in his pockets, searching for the lubed condom that he knows is in there. Justin's legs are gripping his hips and they frantically manage to work his pants over and down them.

Justin tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth and he thinks to himself that it's one of the sexiest things he's seen in a very long time and then he isn't thinking anything at all because Justin's hand is wrapped around him, stroking him. He bites Justin's shoulder when he feels him place the condom over the head of his cock and roll it down, smoothing it over his shaft.

Justin's not as flexible as he used to be—he knows that there'd have been no way in hell _he'd_ have been able to get _his_ legs up around _his_ ears at 29—but that doesn't matter because he pulls him closer, guides him and then he is pressing into Justin's ass which is much tighter than he remembers.

**Justin's POV**

It has been a long time since he's let anyone fuck him—2,085 days—and all he can think about is the fact that there really isn't enough lube on this stupid condom but he doesn't want it to stop. Things like being able to walk or sit down really are not important to him right now.

He is clawing at Brian's shoulders and his breathing is loud even to his own ears. Brian's mouth is careful on his and he knows that Brian can tell that he is hurting him. He's not moving and Justin doesn't know if he can stand it. He writhes under him and begs him to fuck him. It works.

**Brian's POV**

He knows that he is hurting him and he doesn't want to but, with Justin squirming and asking him to fuck him against his mouth, it is everything that he can do not to shoot his load like an oversexed teenager. Like Justin used to be. He slides in and out of him slowly, carefully. He slips his hand between them to grasp Justin's cock from where it is pressing into him and leaking against his stomach. When he starts jerking him slowly, Justin responds appropriately by jerking beneath him and calling out the names of all of religious figures that Brian can remember having learned in Sunday school as a boy.

Justin's eyes roll back into his head when he starts moving a little faster and his eyes finally close. Brian kisses his eyelids and is panting in his ear when Justin's hands come around his hips to rest on his lower back, just above the curve of his ass. Justin's face and chest are flushed and it is only the column of his arched neck that remains the same pale white as the rest of his skin. He can taste the sweat on his skin. Justin's pulse races rapidly beneath his tongue.

He is stroking him faster now and he can tell that Justin is close from the way that he tenses around him, beneath him. He's asking for it and Brian's scalp is sore from where he pulling his hair but he has never been so turned on. His whole body goes rigid and, when he leans in and urges him against his ear and Justin responds by tightening around him so hard that his vision blurs just a little bit and shooting all over their chests and stomachs shouting Brian's name in the process, he is undone.

He isn't exactly sure how long he lays there on the floor on Justin's studio, collapsed. He knows that at some point he eases out of him and flings the condom aside, dropping onto his back. He doesn't bother tying it. It isn't quite like any of the times that came before because Justin doesn't curl into him. They are both flat on their backs panting, not touching, and trying to catch their breath.

When he kissed Justin, he hadn't thought about what he would do afterward.

It is finally Justin who speaks.

"I think," he says from the floor beside him, "that you should probably go."

When he sits up and picks up his clothes from the floor around them, they don't look at each other. He dresses quickly, carelessly, and leaves.

* * *

**A/N: _Queer as Folk_ and its characters, etc., belong to Showtime and CowLip.**

**Bit of a longer wait on this one. I really wanted to get it right.**

**Love it, or hate it?  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**5:32 PM. October 7, 2012**

**Justin's POV**

"It's three hundred and seventy grand."

Miles fumbles his fork and the chicken cacciatore that he is in the middle of eating falls back to his plate. "What?"

Justin repeats himself. "Three hundred and seventy _thousand _dollars."

Miles is staring at him.

"Three hundred and seventy _thou_—"

"Yeah, no, I heard you. _WHAT?"_

"That was my reaction, too."

They're in the kitchen, eating. Miles has to review a show tonight, so they're eating earlier than usual. The artist is actually the spouse of one of their mutual friends. She's a sculptor.

"Three hundred and seventy thousand dollars—"

"—is a _lot _of fucking money." Justin finishes. "It's crazy."

"Insane."

"Completely."

Miles has stopped gaping at him and is now giving him a knowing look. "And you aren't sure if you want a crazy person buying your paintings."

Justin grins and shakes his head sheepishly. "Yeah, something like that."

"But...it's three hundred and seventy thousand dollars."

"Which doesn't exactly mean a lot. Coming from _you_, you know." Miles is even more of a WASP than Justin is. He really doesn't know where all of the Webster money comes from and Miles doesn't like to talk about it. Naturally, Justin teases him about it relentless at every opportunity he gets.

Miles wrinkles his nose distastefully and moves on.

"I think that you should take it. I know that it's not like you need the money—"

"—we _don't_ need the money—"

"—okay, _we _don't right now_—_" A slow smile tugs at Miles' mouth. "—but we might want it someday. We can't live in the city forever."

"Why not?" Justin feels the corners of his mouth lift and it isn't long before he's smiling the same stupid grin that Miles is. He knows what is coming. They've had this conversation before.

Miles has reached across the table and is now holding his hand, stroking the top of it with his thumb. "I don't want to raise a family in the city."

They meet across the table and kiss, smiling mouth to smiling mouth.

They make love against the wall of the shower and end up being almost late for the show. He calls Cam in the cab on the way there. He is going to accept the offer.

**Brian's POV**

"Kinney."

He's still sitting at his desk when he gets the call. He's alone in the office. He will be the last person to leave tonight just as he has been the last person to leave for the last five months.

"Excellent. I'll have my accountant wire the money in the morning."

**9:10 PM. November 3, 2012**

**Justin's POV**

After Brian leaves, he picks himself up off the floor and clothes himself only enough so there will be no suspicion on behalf of anyone who happens to drop by during the day. He moves through his studio in a trance. He paints and paints and paints and when he is finished and happens to look out one of the windows, he is shocked to realise that all of the good painting light has long since gone. He's been painting in the darkness for quite some time.

It is time for him to go home. It isn't like he has a curfew, but he does try to plan his hours around Miles'. He likes it when they have time together in the evenings.

He has waited all day to shower. He does not want to wash the scent of Brian from his skin.

When he gets home, the apartment is dark. Miles is lounging on the sofa watching television. There is a kiss hello and then he goes to their bedroom, throws on a pair of grey cotton pants and a t-shirt, and returns.

_Paris, je t'aime_. Tenth arrondissement. Faubourg Saint-Denis.

He falls to the sofa in front of Miles and lays his head on his shoulder. Warm arms come up around him. They don't talk.

"_Thomas, listen. There are times when life calls out for a change, a transition. Like—like the seasons. Our spring was wonderful but summer's over now and we missed out on autumn. And now, all of a sudden, it's cold, so cold everything's freezing over. Our love fell asleep and the snow took it by surprise but if you fall asleep in the snow you don't feel death coming._"

The soft flickering lights and the rhythm the steady breathing beneath his head calms his nervous heart and the next thing he knows, the title screen is looping in an irritating fashion. Miles' snoring fills his ear, teases his hair. He is tempted to spend the night on the sofa, in Miles's arms, but guilt gnaws at his stomach. He eases himself onto the floor gingerly, feeling around for the remote. It's almost too dark to see. Finally, he finds it and turns off the television. He runs a hand through Miles' hair, covers him with a chenille blanket, and goes to sleep.

It's well into the next morning when he decides that he needs to leave. He takes a cab back to his studio and spends the rest of the night on a futon that he keeps there for nights such as these.

**Brian's POV**

After Justin kicks him out, he goes back to work. The smell of sex mingles with his cologne and he ignores Cynthia's raised eyebrow when he finally walks back into his office. She's a nosy bitch where his personal life is concerned.

The rest of the day is unending but when it finally does end, he doesn't think twice about what he is going to do, or where he is going to go. He shuns his driver and hails a cab instead. Tonight he craves the anonymity of a crowd and, for the first time in a very long time, he misses Pittsburgh.

The first time he went to Babylon, he laughed. He remembers standing outside the door in utter disbelief. There was no way that there could possibly be another Babylon in New York, right? Wrong. It wasn't the same—nothing ever was—but it was a close enough that he was willing to use it as a substitute.

He rarely goes. Frequenting the club scene at forty-one feels a little pathetic. There is really nothing worse than an over-the-hill club boy. He refuses to become one but somehow he ends up there tonight.

He wonders if any of the tricks that are hitting on him have any idea how old he is. He assumes that they don't. They all seem so young—so much younger than they did before. He's not interested in most of them. They _are_ too young for him and jailbait hasn't appealed to him in a very long time. He blames it on his son. Gus is twelve, now, and he can't help but do a mental comparison every time some young piece of bravado actually has the fortitude—liquid, of course—to approach him.

Blue eyes and pale skin select the lucky winner from his legions of admirers. He takes him by the hand and leads him to the back room. His hands are fisted in the nameless trick's blonde hair when he comes.

**10:17 AM. November 8, 2012**

**Justin's POV**

It's been five days. He is barely living in the apartment anymore. Miles comes to visit him at his studio every once in a while, but he doesn't stay long—he doesn't need to. It's happened before. Justin holes himself up in his studio for days at a time, barely stopping long enough to eat or shower, let alone make the commute back to the apartment. Miles understands. He brings him food and clean clothes. Never before has he been so happy for someone to chalk his behaviour up to typical artistic melodrama.

He doesn't often hide his work from Miles. It's often a matter of it not being finished, not quite right. He is his own harshest critic though it doesn't and has never helped that his boyfriend is an art critic. This time, it's because it's personal. He may have kicked Brian out of his studio, but he hasn't been able to stop painting him since he did.

There is a voice from the doorway and he is yanked out of his head and firmly back into reality.

He doesn't need to turn around to know who it is. He recognises it as if it is the only one he's ever heard. Panic washes over him. He doesn't want to talk about this. He doesn't know _how _to talk about this_. _Paint is splattering violently onto the canvas but he likes the desperate feeling it lends to the piece—he certainly feels fucking desperate enough at the moment. Pain licks his nerves and his hand slowly but surely begins to tighten. He disregards it, he will not cave. He ignores his name, which Brian says aloud again, as the tap-tap-tap of his expensive leather soles on the hardwood get louder. He doesn't need to turn around to be able to see Brian's loose-hipped, predatory stride in his mind.

Warm arms wrap around his middle and he feels Brian's lips brush his temple. "Good morning, dear."

Justin actually drops his brush onto the drop sheet covering the ground in surprise.

Brian's hands slide up and he takes his spastic hand between his own. He tsks him and massages it gently. "What have I told you about taking breaks? You know you're not supposed to overwork it."

He's still gaping at him. What the fuck?

"Door was open," he explains and Justin gasps as he rubs the tension out of his hand. "I hope you don't mind that I let myself in."

It doesn't happen very often, but Justin has been physically rendered speechless. He can't think while Brian's touching him, so he pulls away and drops onto his futon. His leg bounces nervously.

Brian sits down beside him and grips his vibrating knee reassuringly. "Will you _stop_ it?"

Justin practically shoots up off the futon which is definitely a bed, an unmade bed with blankets and sheets strewn everywhere. With Brian sitting on it, it doesn't feel sofa-like in the slightest and he knows what will happen if he stays there. He's already cheated on Miles once this week—_twice _if he counts jerking off in the shower to the memory of their indiscretion on the floor of his studio and innumerable times if he counts all of the times he's replayed it in his mind since—which is once more than he ever has before. He and Miles don't fuck around on each other like he and Brian did—there are no other lovers—and so it does not sit well with him. He does not want to do it again. Brian gets to his feet. In order to busy himself, he picks the dropped brush up from the ground and swishes it around in a jar of turpentine. Strong fingers massage circles into his tense shoulders. His back arches a little, involuntarily, and he leans into Brian's touch for a minute before pulling away. A hand at his elbow pulls him back and forces him to turn around.

**Brian's POV**

"Stop _what_?"

Petulance drips from Justin's words and for the first time since seeing him again, he is reminded of how young he used to be—his seventeen-year-old teenaged lover. Christ, that was bad, even for him. It's a good thing that he doesn't dwell on the past.

"Thinking about it," he explains. "You need to stop thinking."

When Justin opens his mouth to protest, he silences him with a finger against it. "If you're going to stop thinking," he rationalises, "then there's no point in talking, either." He knows full well that he should not be tracing the outline of Justin's bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, but it's keeping him quiet, so he can't bring himself to feel guilty.

"It's my turn," he says to him, even though he's done practically all of the speaking since he arrived, "to talk."

Justin's eyes are slightly glazed, but they are focused on him, so he proceeds by backing him into the futon.

"I know that you would like nothing more," he pauses until he's straddling Justin's body, "than to freak out about what this does and doesn't mean, but we're not going to do that this time."

Justin's smiling a slow lazy smile at him and Brian knows exactly what he's thinking. "But—?"

"No," he tells him, kissing his jaw. "Maybe. Yes."

Justin gets the idea. "Just one more time. Every second Sunday of the month. Whenever we're physically able."

"Everything. Nothing. Fuck, I don't know."

He knows that Justin has been working out when he flips him onto his back before he can even try to resist it.

"Nothing?" Justin mock-growls at him menacingly.

He's sure that Justin knows how ridiculous he sounds and it's true. It's taking everything Brian has not to laugh at him. He pulls him down until they bump noses and kiss until Justin pulls away.

"Everything." Justin corrects him and doesn't comment on the eye roll that escapes him. He drags the syllables out as if he were speaking to a non-native speaker. "_Eve-ry-thing_."

**Justin's POV**

They undress each other much more slowly this time. They sit up and Brian shrugs out of his suit jacket, folding it carefully and letting it fall to the ground beside the futon. Brian flicks open the buttons at his wrists in a lazy, practiced motion—Justin's seen him do it thousands of times, but he can't help but think that it's the sexiest thing he's ever seen. He shifts his weight and comes forward to help Brian undo the buttons on his shirt. He relaxes a bit when Brian's hands come up under his t-shirt, stroking his sides, before pulling it over his head. It's cold in the studio and when they come together this time, he can feel Brian's goose bumps on his chest.

He doesn't think about Miles again. There is no place for him in this.

* * *

**A/N: I know that I took forever to update. I'm sorry. I'm on day 10 of an 11 day work streak and I've been tired.**

**_Queer as Folk _does not belong to me. Neither does _Paris, je t'aime_ :(  
**


	8. Chapter 8

**2:21 PM. May 4, 2013**

**Justin's POV**

He knows that there is a reason why Brian hasn't asked him to leave Miles. He used to think that it was because he was afraid that he'd say no. Now he knows differently.

He is used to being the one who leaves and this time is no different. He gives Brian and the chestnut haired man in his arms a long look before turning and walking away.

**8:24 PM. December 21, 2012**

**Justin's POV**

It's almost too easy for him to fall back into what he used to know, has always known, since that fated night in the cool, crisp air when he was bathed in light and learned exactly what it was like to give himself wholly and unabashedly to another person. It's almost too easy, and it hurts him that he is doing this to Miles, but it feels so fucking good when he is with Brian that he is able to take his name and his face and his voice and put them in another part of his mind until it feels like they are part of a different life. He does still love Miles. He is one of his closest friends and has been there for him many times when Brian has not, but those memories and feelings cannot be reconciled with the ones he is making with Brian.

He still loves Miles, he tells himself, when they decide, for the first time in three years, to spend Christmas with their respective families. Miles' grandmother is not well and there is to be very little festiveness in the Webster family home this year. Miles has taken an extended leave from work and he and his parents will be going back to England. He offered to accompany him but he hadn't been serious. He knows that the older members of the Webster family have no idea that Miles is gay and Miles has told him before that he has no intention of telling them. Justin will not be going to Pittsburgh for the holiday. He is staying in New York and he is spending it with Brian.

He is used to being the one who breaks the rules. To the fullest extent of his knowledge, Brian never did. He was not the one who kissed and touched to hurt. He had never really bothered with names or numbers, but Justin found it reassuring when he agreed to that, too. It surprised everyone, including him, that it was he who was ultimately responsible for the rifts that tore and the chasms that opened up between the two of them, threatening to swallow them whole. But it's easy to be the one who is wrong, he decides, when you make no promises. It's when you start to promise beautiful, impossible things that wrongness becomes your actions because promises are, as everyone knows, only made to be broken.

He was responsible for what he did to Brian when he left him for Ethan, left him for California, left him for New York...left him for any number of stupid fucking things that seemed so much less important in hindsight than they had at the time. And now he is responsible for what he is doing to Miles because he has promised him every single thing and more than what he has ever promised to Brian.

It's almost too easy for Justin to fall and it is even more convenient for him to worm his way back into Brian's heart. The two of them know, whether they admit it or not, that for once he has never really left.

**Brian's POV **

They are lying in his hotel room and Justin's head is resting on his chest. His heart is beating loudly, painfully, and he knows that the noise is audible—surely _amplified_—in Justin's ears.

He hadn't meant to fucking say it. He hasn't said it in years but that has never made it any less true.

What was worse than the fact that he'd said it was the way that Justin's eyes had softened and inevitably become tinged with pity. Pity for him, pity for himself.

It had been one thing for Justin to throw it in his face in a moment of emotional vulnerability—he hadn't really held him to it. He knows without doubt that it was quite another for him to have said it in a moment of what he can only assume that Justin thinks is lust. The way that it had happened had not been anything like what he'd wanted. He thought—and he _had _thought about this—that when he said it again it would be different from the first time. There would be no fear, no bomb, nothing but truth. And now he's gone and fucked it all up.

He is grateful when the sound of Justin's breathing lulls and slows, signalling that he has at last fallen asleep. This isn't a thing that Brian wants to discuss, certainly not now and he waits until Justin reaches the point of no return—he still sleeps like the dead—before sliding out from under him and off the side of the bed.

**Justin's POV**

When he awakens, he is alone in the bed. Wrapping a sheet around his body, toga-style, like he did so many years ago in Brian's loft, he goes to him. There isn't a glass this time but, with that sole exception, the scene is the same. He's sitting on the sofa in his robe—not the same navy silk but something similar in an understated charcoal paisley print.

He leans into the back of the sofa and drapes his arms over Brian's chest, tucks his chin into his shoulder.

"It doesn't mean anything."

He knows that it is a mistake the moment that the words are out of his mouth. He knows in the split-second before Brian's whole body stiffens that he has picked the very worst response out of all that are floating around in his head—_I'm sorry. I love you, too. I want to stay with you and be with you forever_—any of those would have been a more apt description for how it had felt for him when Brian had moaned 'I never stopped loving you' against his mouth.

What he really means is not that the words don't mean anything, but that his horrible gut response doesn't matter. He doesn't say anything else, though, for fear of ruining things even more.

After a few minutes have passed, Brian pulls gently on his wrists until their cheeks are flush against one another. He turns his head to the side and pecks him. "Let's go back to bed," he tells him. "We've only got an hour to fuck in case the world does actually end before midnight."

**7:48 AM. December 25, 2012.**

**Brian's POV**

Justin is laying on his back beside him and he smiles at the way that he has pushed his own pillow off the side of the bed and migrated from one side of the bed to the other. He's ended up on his pillow for as long as he can remember and he likes that he still does it. In the semi-darkness of the morning, the sky has opened up and nothing is visible beyond the glass barrier of the window except snow. The suite is quiet. The swirling whiteness outside has insulated them from the normally inescapable noises from the city and there is no sound except the soft sighs that are falling from Justin's lips.

Brian loves to watch him dream. It started after he got bashed, when his nightmares would leave him thrashing and crying in the middle of the night, unable to wake up. They almost always roused _him, _though, and Brian would brush back damp strands of his beautiful blonde hair, call out his name, and hold his sweaty shaking body until he fell back asleep.

It isn't a nightmare this time, and as he lays there propped up on his elbow above him, he is thinking about how he would like nothing more than to know what he is dreaming about. He is studying Justin's face carefully when his smiling mouth shapes and sounds his name.

"Brian."

Justin is still in his sleep for a few minutes and when he says it again, it's less of a whisper and more of a moan.

"_Brian_..."

His head has lolled to the side, exposing the paleness of his neck. His skin is thinner here and the bluish-green of his veins are sometimes visible as they are now in a delicate webbed pattern under the surface. He is running his fingers along Justin's clavicle, dipping them into the hollow of his suprasternal notch—it's his favourite part of his body aside from his cock and his ass, his full lips and his soft blonde hair—when he says it:

"Not you, Miles."

It's almost too quiet for him to make out and it is somewhat sadder than he would like it to be, but it's there and he says it. Even though they have decided not to buy each other gifts—too sentimental, Justin had told him, when they both knew what he'd actually meant was too hard to hide—he has not been this happy in a very long time.

**Justin's POV**

He is dreaming about Miles when he wakes up with Brian's cock in his ass. It's a little conflicting. It's not the first time it's happened—the sleep fucking. He is a hard sleeper. He's panting and Brian is laying on his shoulder afterward when his cell phone rings. He doesn't look at the caller display before answering lazily. The connection sounds farther away than usual and it takes him a minute to process that the accented voice on the other end is Miles.

Since he'd left England with his parents when he was fairly young—he'd only been nine when they'd emigrated—Miles didn't have much of an accent. Justin hadn't been able to pick it out when he'd told him, a couple of months after they'd met, and had laughed hysterically after Miles had done an overblown imitation.

Over time, he had noticed that there were certain words that Miles retained—Justin had had no idea what the hell he'd meant when he'd talked about wanting to buy a new Chesterfield and had stared at him stupidly when he'd talked of his love for bangers and mash—but it was the rhythm and cadence of his speech that really gave him away. It was musical, he realised one day, and he loved listening to his rich tenor.

He was talking to his aunt on the phone one morning when Justin heard it for the first time naturally. It just seemed so strange coming out of his mouth and when he asked Miles about it afterward, he admitted to being completely unaware of having done it. He didn't do it around his parents, after all, but Justin supposed that their accents had faded significantly, too.

"Happy Christmas!" he tells him and Justin can tell by the warmth in his voice that he has been drinking. He does a quick calculation in his head and realises that it's already eight in the evening in England.

Brian props himself up beside him in bed and wrinkles his nose. Justin assumes that he can hear him through the speaker.

Justin winces inwardly. A phone conversation with his fiancé conducted while he is in bed with his lover is not high on his list of priorities for the day, but he returns the greeting anyway. It's noisy in the background and he can hear Miles laughing at something that someone's said.

"Sorry," Miles apologises and he can hear him move to a more private location. "How was Christmas with your mother and Tucker?"

"It was good," he lies. "Molly and her new boyfriend are over and I'm just in the kitchen right now."

Brian rolls his eyes.

Miles laughs. "Be nice to him."

"I am," he lies again and inquires into the health of Miles' grandmother. She's still not doing well.

"I miss you," Miles says into his ear. "I really wish that I were home right now."

Brian has been watching him the whole time up until this point but when he hears this, he rolls away to give him a little privacy.

**Brian's POV**

He doesn't want to hear it but he doesn't want to get out of bed because that will mean that Miles will have won. When the conversation gets more serious, though, he can't help but feel slightly ill.

"Yeah, I know." Justin's voice is quieter now and he knows that he doesn't really want him to hear this either.

He comforts himself with the thought that he is the one in bed with Justin while Miles is on the other side of the Atlantic, probably talking to a horse-faced cousin with bad teeth. He hadn't known that Miles was English and now that he does he feels an irrational hatred for the way that they speak. He sounds like he has a gigantic stick up his ass and he decides that he probably does.

From listening to Miles' voice, he imagines that he is everything that he is not and he becomes resentful of the fact that the man that Justin has chosen after him is his polar opposite. He should have picked someone more like him and he didn't. He is sure that Miles' father is nothing like Jack Kinney and his mother nothing like Joan. They probably love Justin. Everyone does. He knows, though, that no matter how perfect Miles is, Jennifer Taylor will always love him the most.

"Are you wearing it?"

He doesn't have to be touching Justin to know the way that he has most certainly stiffened against these words but he can't help but wonder, _wearing what?_

"Of course I am," Justin tells him, "it's beautiful."

He also doesn't have to be looking at Justin to know that he is lying. He's not wearing a goddamn thing.

The emotion that he hears in Miles' voice when he tells Justin that he loves him fills him with nothing but contempt. He is filled with so much disgust at that moment that it surprises him how much it hurts when Justin says it back.

It's not until later, when Justin has gone into the bathroom to brush his teeth, that Brian finds the masculine platinum band on the floor where he had taken off Justin's pants. He picks it up from the floor and pockets it.

* * *

**A/N: _Queer as Folk _****n'appartient pas à moi.**

**Je trouve ce chapître triste mais je l'aime bien. J'espère que vous l'aiment aussi. Les opinions de Brian des Anglais ne sont pas à moi. J'adore les Anglais et leurs accents aussi. Je suis désolée pour avoir besoin de les écrire. Vous savez comment il déteste Miles.  
**

**Disez-moi ce que vous pensez!**

**Je suis un peu ennuyeuse au moment donc j'ai decidé de l'écrire en français. Pour ceux qui ne peuvent pas le parler, je vais le traduire au-dessus.**

**_Queer as Folk _does not belong to me. **

**I found this chapter sad, but I like it a lot. I hope that all of you like it as well. Brian's opinions about the English are not mine. I love the English and their accents as well. I am sorry for having to write them like that. You know how he hates Miles.  
**

**Let me know what you think!  
**


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